The Strivers' Row Spy (28 page)

“Between the Ku Klux Klan and the NAACP,” he said, “give me the Klan for their honesty of purpose toward the Negro. They are better friends of my race . . . for telling us what they are . . . and what they mean.”

More hisses flooded the hall.

“This is my position,” he said. “These are the facts. Those of you who boo me can join those backstabbing former members of my executive council who chose to resign. That's fine with me. It's time to clean house anyway. Time for a fresh start! Many members of my executive council chose not to resign. And there they sit.”

Garvey kept his body facing the audience, but casually turned his head and glared at his council.

“And amongst them are men who like to badmouth me while I'm out of town. Well, I'm laying down the gauntlet right here and now. Any one of you can feel free to step forward and address this hall right in front of me.”

With that, Garvey walked over and took a seat. Again, a hush came over the hall and everyone waited to see if anyone would step forward. They didn't have to wait long. James stood and approached the podium. Many cheered, others jeered, but my friend was more stoic and determined-looking than ever.

“I welcome this opportunity to address you, brothers and sisters,” he said. “Please lend me your ears. The time has come to testify. For it is only God above that I fear.”

“PREACH, BROTHER EASON!” shouted several throughout.

“GOD IS WITH GARVEY!” screamed a man up front.

“THAT'S RIGHT, WE WITH GARVEY!” yelled others.

“
Loyalty
is a funny word,” said James, his words being met with sprinkles of applause. “And loyalty is a two-way street!”

“GARVEY! GARVEY! GARVEY!” the chant began, but it didn't dissuade James. He waited for it to die down.

“I remember the days when the UNIA wasn't afraid to make it known that we were willing to combat any group, especially the Ku Klux Klan, in order to defend our rights as Negroes. They knew we'd be willing to use our fists if it came down to it. Some of us still feel this way.”

“PREACH!” yelled several.

“I remember the sign that used to hang right out front that said, ‘We are ready for the Ku Klux Klan.' And again, we were. But now we must come to terms with the unfathomable truth that our leader has met with the Imperial Wizard, an act that I cannot condone. You all know me. I speak for the U.S. brothers and sisters, and I was honored to be given the high-ranking position of UNIA Leader of the American Negroes. I thank you here publicly for bestowing upon me that honor, President Garvey. But I question your actions.”

He turned and looked at Garvey. The stare-down lasted several seconds before the crowd began to yell and scream at James with disapproval. They didn't like seeing their president challenged, no matter the cause, and had never seen anyone speak out publicly against him, especially someone like James, who many argued was the second most powerful man within the UNIA.

“I speak only what is in my heart,” said James. “And I will not resign as some of my colleagues have. I understand that you, Brother Garvey, have privately suggested to several delegates that I am not fit to lead the American Negro . . . that I am incompetent. I say . . . right here before this body . . . that it is your competence that should be called into question.”

A collective deep breath could be heard from the throng.

“I request that you disprove this charge of incompetence in front of this convention's delegates. No more secrecy! I request a trial in the coming days, before this convention comes to a close. Let the international delegation decide my fate.”

“YOU'RE FINISHED!” screamed someone.

“YOU'RE A TRAITOR!” yelled another.

“GARVEY! GARVEY! GARVEY!” the hall began again.

My friend bravely stood there at the podium and waited for them to quiet down once more, but they didn't. In fact, Garvey's supporters would make sure those were the last words James spoke that night. He finally realized what he was up against and headed back to his seat.

I'd seen enough and headed upstairs to the exit. My God, how they shouted. So much so that the walls along the dark stairwell began to shake. It felt as if the noise was going to blow the roof off of Liberty Hall that night.

I
ARRIVED HOME AROUND DINNERTIME LATER THAT NIGHT
. E
NTERING
through the kitchen, I grabbed a sugar cookie from the counter and nibbled on it for a bit before walking into the living room.

I sat my briefcase down on the couch, loosened my tie, and noticed several suitcases by the front door. The house was quieter than usual. I stood there looking in each direction, absorbing the scene.

Turning to my left and looking up at the top of the stairwell, I saw the bottom of Loretta's legs. They were still. Then, as if on cue, she began to move. I noticed her black dress and high heels. Had I forgotten about an event we were supposed to attend? It certainly wasn't our anniversary or either of our birthdays.

She arrived at the base of the stairwell and looked directly at me, her face covered in tears. I wanted to run and grab her, but couldn't move.

“What happened?” I asked.

She held out some sheets of paper, waiting for me to come and grab them. I did, wondering if someone had sent news of a death in the family. But what I grabbed were two large photographs and a newspaper clipping. I took one look and recognized that the lie I'd been telling her for three years had finally come to an end.

“Where did you get these?” I asked, eyeing the picture of the official agent contract I'd signed.

“A man came by here and gave me these pictures and these press clippings. He said you've been an agent with the Bureau of Investigation since 1919. Is it true, Sid? The man photographed in that newspaper clipping is certainly the same man you're shaking hands with in the other picture. And you're holding a Bureau badge, for Christ's sake!”

“Give me a second here. I need you to try—”

“Please don't lie to me. The truth. At least give me that. The article says that man runs the Bureau of Investigation in Washington. And that's absolutely your signature.”

“Would you hold on just a minute? Calm down.”

“Is it true?”

“You're obviously already convinced that it is.”

“Then tell me I'm wrong. Am I wrong?”

A dozen thoughts ran through my mind, but I was tired of lying. In fact, I was just plain tired.

“No,” I said. “You're not wrong.”

There was a long bit of nothing and then she asked, “How could you do this to me, Sidney?”

“Let me explain.”

She put her hand up to keep me from saying another word and dropped her head. I'd never seen her this inconsolable. Her light cry turned to an intense, shaking one. I walked over and wrapped her up.

“It's not what you think, Loretta.”

She began trying to break free, but I kept my arms locked.

“You let go of me!” she yelled, squirming away, the sound of her voice becoming nasal.

I released her and she took a big step back, slipping a bit on the hardwood floor. Her sadness had sharply turned to anger. Her eyes were cold, her nose runny.

“You've been lying to me, your mother, James, and on and on. Our life is a lie.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Through it all, the loss of Daddy, moving your mother and aunt, buying this house, making new friends, losing our child, the one person I put my trust in was you.”

“You can still trust me.”

“There were even moments when the only reason I wanted to keep going was my love for you. And that was based one hundred percent on knowing I knew exactly who you were. That gave my life meaning. And now all of that is gone. None of what you did for me was ever about me. It was about fooling me so you could help yourself.”

“That's not true. I love you more than anything. I'm doing all of this for us. Not for me. For all of us.”

“Who is
us,
Sidney?”

“Our people.”

“You could've told me.”

“I had to protect you.”

“Can you even protect yourself?”

“What?”

“The man who stopped by here may have something to say about that.”

“Who?”

“He told me to give you a message.”

“What?”

“He said to finish the job and call the phone number he gave you or things will get worse. What does that even mean for God's sake, Sidney? Finish what job?”

“He wants me to frame Garvey.”

“Or things will get worse? When did you think it might be okay to tell me our lives were in danger?”

“They're not.”

“At least now I know why you never wanted to discuss your job, why you never introduced me to anyone, why we never got a house telephone.”

“Never introduced you to anyone? You know James. You know—”

“STOP!”

Her shouting startled me. I looked over at the suitcases again and felt my heart speed up.

“Where are you going?”

“I waited until you got home before leaving because I wanted to find out that it all might somehow not be true.”

“I said where are you going?”

“This house makes me sick. I can't think. I can't breathe.”

“Then we will leave. We'll go to Vermont. Tomorrow.”

“I'm staying with Ginger until I can decide what to do next.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I'm not. We may go to Paris.”

“You can't,” I said, reaching out and grabbing her wrist.

“I can and I will!” she screamed, yanking her arm away.

“What about the house?”

“That's the last thing I care about. Do what you want with it.”

“I've never heard you talk like this. Just listen to me. Calm down and let's talk about this. It's me. We've been through hell and back together. This is too much too fast. Please. We love each other.”

“Don't mention love to me. Love is trust. Trust is love. There's nothing more to talk about.”

Her glare was piercing. I'd watched her live under the cloud of her father's death for three years and had happily watched that cloud disappear. Now, all at once, it was back, but even darker. I realized she might never find her way out from under it this time.

We continued looking at each other until there was a knock at the door. She ignored it for a few seconds as I begged her with my eyes. Neither of us had any words left. After another knock she opened it and there stood Ginger.

“Are you ready?” she asked, her French accent never more pronounced.

“Yes,” said Loretta.

Ginger stepped inside and didn't look at me. They each grabbed two suitcases as I took a deep breath and tried to grasp what was happening. Ginger quickly walked out, but Loretta stopped at the doorway. She turned and looked back at me, her bloodshot eyes telling me one more time how deeply I'd hurt her. Then, just like that, she was gone.

W
ITH THE SUN BARELY RISING AND MOST OF
H
ARLEM STILL ASLEEP
, I sat in my office the next morning thinking about how I could have done it all so differently, without lying to her. But I'd thought I could pull the whole thing off without her ever getting hurt. And in the end, I thought I'd be okay living with the lie, especially considering I would have assured a better life for her and our children, a segregation-free one.

I watched the Bureau telephone on my desk ring and ring, knowing that if I picked it up it would put me right back in the middle of the mess, force me to deal once again with the web I was entangled in. I picked it up.

“Q3Z,” I answered.

“Rise and shine,” said Speed. “Shit, now I know when to catch you. You're a fuckin' early bird like me. What's the latest?”

“Eason is likely going to be forced out,” I answered. “Garvey doesn't trust him anymore. And you've heard about the KKK meeting, I assume?”

“All over the fuckin' papers. That calculating motherfucker is always . . . well . . .
calculating
. What's his angle on this, Q?”

“Can I get back to you on that? He's obviously trying to curry favor with a demographic powerful enough to raise eyebrows in Washington. I can hear those bigots now . . . telling D.C. to ‘leave their well-meaning Negro alone.' You know? Your type of people, Speed.”

“Fuck you straight to hell, Q. You're lucky Hoover needs your black ass.”

“You see! There you go. Proving my point.”

“Well, I don't hear you saying a damn thing solid. All I hear you saying is, ‘It may be this and it may be that.' It's your job to find out his exact motive. Hell, I can sit around speculating and guessing.”

“Give me a few days.”

“Days, not weeks on this, okay, Q?”

“Got it,” I said, hanging up the phone, knowing I wasn't going to lift a finger the rest of the day. I just wanted to think and stay out of sight. I reached in my briefcase and took out the slip of paper with the Timekeeper's phone number on it. He was probably waiting for me to call with the news that I'd finally planted the evidence.

Was Speed on the Timekeeper's team? Of course I wondered. But how would that change my position? Or was it Hoover alone sending the Timekeeper, keeping Speed and the others out of the loop? Or was it exactly as the Timekeeper had claimed—that his organization simply had a mole inside the Bureau that no one in D.C. knew about?

All I knew was that I had to look at this obstacle as one man. This game of chicken was between him and me. And this approach to thinking about it would allow me to focus because I wasn't about to quit. In fact I was beyond angry that the bastard had involved Loretta. I'd be damned if I was gonna give in to his demands now.

Hell, with her gone I felt a lot less fear. Besides, I just knew it was this Timekeeper's final play, and that I was still a man of too much value to whoever was pulling these strings. Outing me to Garvey served no one's purpose. However, part of me could see Hoover guessing that such a threat would have rattled my cage, for he was a man who thought me far too simple.

* * *

I walked in the house that evening and found a letter from Loretta on the dining room table. It simply read:

The pain was too much, but I knew she was justified in not feeling safe, even though I figured she was. The Timekeeper had only made this move to scare me into thinking he might hurt her. He'd miscalculated.

I walked into her studio and saw that she'd taken all of her paintings. She'd left a few brushes, some cans of paint. An old blue dress shirt I'd given her to work in was resting on a stool. The sleeves were rolled up and it had splotches of paint all over. I picked it up, held it to my face, and just as I'd imagined, it smelled of her lovely perfume. All I could do at that moment was pray she'd come back to me someday. My gut told me she wouldn't. Still, I had to find the strength to respect her wishes.

I walked upstairs, found one of my hidden bottles of whiskey from years back, dragged myself out onto our bedroom balcony, and began to guzzle away my misery.

Looking out at the dimly lit street, I realized that whoever was watching me was, well, watching me. To them, the entire country was one big Harlem with no good hiding places for a man in my position. Besides, almost half of Loretta's financial worth was wrapped up in the house and all that was in it. I couldn't let her lose that, too, regardless of what was to become of us.

So, until I could sell it and head to God knows where, my intention was to keep working like a man is supposed to. I'd still make myself available to Garvey and I'd continue updating Du Bois as best I could. I would remain an agent until the trial and conviction. Then I'd be done.

* * *

After waking up the next morning with Loretta's paint-covered shirt in hand, I washed up and drove straight to the real estate office on 143rd Street and put the house up for sale. I learned that its value had appreciated considerably. Now I'd just have to wait for someone to make a fair offer.

And wait I did. Months went by as if they were one long, drawn out, miserable, lonely day with nothing but Loretta's absence permeating every second of it. There'd been no sign of the Timekeeper. Unfortunately, there'd been no sign of a buyer for the house either.

Speed, as usual, had done a lot of yelling through the phone, expressing how frustrating it was that everything was moving at a snail's pace. But he'd emphasized how sure the Bureau was about Garvey's ultimate fate. And he'd reiterated the fact that Hoover wanted me to remain in place, to continue operating out of the consulting front and working on the church. He'd expressed how pleased Hoover was with my positioning and how critical it would be for me to remain in Garvey's good graces if he managed to win his trial. According to Speed, Hoover had said I was “absolutely indispensable.”

The fact that the Timekeeper hadn't shown his face in months after I hadn't succumbed to his approaching Loretta didn't seem to be a simple coincidence. There was no real ultimatum. He was going to wait for the trial like the rest of us. I kept hearing Hoover's words: “absolutely indispensable.”

I'd done a lot of planning, packing, and praying, none of which had put my mind at ease. I'd also managed to comb the entire house for the most irreplaceable, valuable items. I'd then taken them to a secure storage facility, one I'd hoped no one had seen me enter. Either way, it was money well spent for the time being.

I'd quit shaving, and as the cold winter weather set in, I'd begun to take on the look of a lumberjack posing as a suit-wearing engineer. I couldn't think of any good reason to worry about my appearance. In fact, I barely had any desire to brush my teeth and wash my socks. But I did.

I'd informed Speed that James had been officially voted out by the UNIA's convention delegates, expelled for ninety-nine years. He'd since done just as he'd said, started a rival organization. Meanwhile, both Hubert and William had cut ties with Garvey. They, along with most of Harlem's leaders, were still fuming over his visit with the Imperial Wizard. It had weakened him considerably, but he certainly didn't show it. Everything he said in the
Negro World
revealed a man more determined than ever to defeat his enemies and fulfill his promise of Africa for the Africans.

I'd been working closely with a man named Simpson Garfield, bringing him up to speed on the detailed information regarding the Abyssinian I'd compiled over the past few years. We worked from sunup to sundown, along with a slew of other architects, contractors, and advisors who had been brought on board. I was now part of a team of engineers. As I'd need to educate my replacement before moving on, I decided Mr. Garfield fit the bill. He was a short, coffee-skinned man in his forties from Boston, rather quiet, but very detail-oriented.

Because Liberty Hall was right next door to the Abyssinian, I'd run into UNIA members on a daily basis, especially when they were arriving at Sunday's big gatherings. I'd chatted with many of them on the streets, but Garvey had only sent for me once. Business matters seemed to be unofficially on hold while he awaited word on his trial date. Everyone knew it was coming. Lawyers on both sides were just getting their guns fully loaded. I did learn something significant during our one visit, however: I was still in good standing with him.

“Stay ready, Sidney,” he'd said. “Stay sharp. When this trial is over we'll raise enough money to make the gods envious. And with it we'll buy enough ships to deliver every Negro to Africa at once. Not to mention I can quadruple your salary. The U.S. government is kidding itself if it thinks cozying up to Liberia will somehow serve as an impediment to us ever gaining a foothold there. The government elites of both Liberia and America can sip tea and sniff each other's rear ends all day long. Harding can give them a billion dollars, but it still won't stop the common man, the Negro in the streets of Monrovia, from pledging his allegiance to the UNIA.”

About a week before Christmas I drove James to the Grand Central Terminal. He was due to catch a train to Cleveland. Both he and Garvey had begun taking separate trips to various cities, speaking to large audiences and competing for their support.

If Garvey was due to speak in Baltimore, James would plan a speech there the following week. If James visited Philadelphia, Garvey did the same shortly thereafter. And so began their battle.

Traffic around the terminal was heavy, and it was getting dark out, but I weaved through the chaos and pulled alongside the curb to let him out. Suitcase-toting travelers were hustling in and out, flooding the sidewalk.

“Sure you don't wanna come with me?” asked James.

“Next time maybe.”

“Next time will be New Orleans.”

“Always wanted to see New Orleans. I may just do that.”

“That reminds me,” he said, reaching into his briefcase. “When you do make the trip down South, you'll have a new railroad map to study. Started collecting these a while back and didn't stop since I know how much you love 'em. Lord knows I done been to enough cities.”

He handed me a stack of brand-new folded railroad maps. There had to be at least ten. I quickly began sifting through them.

“I mean to tell you, James. I sure do appreciate this. How much do I owe you?”

“Not a penny one. Consider it an early Christmas gift.”

“This is one I've never seen.” I held it up to read. “‘Canadian National Railway,' it says. I'll be darned.”

“Picked that one up in Toronto. It's a mess of maps in that stack there.”

“Can't thank you enough.”

“You welcome, brotha. By the way, when is Loretta due back?”

“Not until January,” I answered, putting the maps in my briefcase. “I want her to enjoy Paris.”

“Then I'll holler at ya'll when I get back.” He opened the door and stepped out into the noise of cars, trains, and clacking shoes.

“You be safe now, James.”

“Will do,” he said, slamming the door.

On my way home I stopped by a tiny little spot on 137th called Tony's to grab a hot salami sandwich and a cup of hot cocoa for dinner, hardly a substitute for Loretta's pork roast or fried chicken, but very good nonetheless.

The folks at Tony's had become used to me stopping in around seven every night. After about a ten-minute wait, a young Italian woman named Sophia put my sandwich in a white paper bag and sat it on the oily-looking wooden countertop that separated her from the customers.

“Would you like me to double cup this cocoa for you?” she asked. “It's real hot.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I hopped up from one of the five counter stools while she doubled it up and then handed it to me.

“You have a good night, Sophia.”

“See ya next time, Mr. Temple.”

Walking toward the Baby Grand, which was parked about ten cars down to the left, I began sipping. I barely missed bumping into a youngster on a bicycle who was trying to avoid a pile of shoveled snow.

There was quite a bit of traffic on the street, but the sidewalk was clear. Just as I was opening the car door, I felt something hard press against my back.

“Don't move, don't say a word,” said a voice. “That's a gun you feel. Just open the door, get in, and scoot.”

He kept the gun pressed against me as I got in and eased my way over to the passenger's side. He then got behind the wheel. Two more men opened the back doors and got in, each pointing their guns at me.

“Give me the key,” said the man behind the wheel. “And hand that shit to them.”

I gave him the key, and he unlocked the ignition system. He then started the engine. As I turned around, the man sitting behind me snatched the paper bag out of my hand—then the cocoa, spilling a bit on me. He handed both to his partner and began patting my coat before removing my pistol.

“Any more of those?” asked the driver, eyeing my gun.